


One Last Contract

by Heiwako



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, General fiction, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiwako/pseuds/Heiwako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cicero's last contract was to kill the jester. It wasn't as easy as advertised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Contract

25th of Morning Star, 4E 189

Rasha looked impressive as always wearing his black leathers. The Speaker had called us all, the few who remained, into the main room of Cheydinhal Sanctuary. The Khajiit stood with his paws on his hips demanding attention, but the Night Mother's coffin dominated the room. Even tucked away in a corner, everyone's eyes were drawn to her. 

The dark stone coffin stood twelve feet tall, the added height from the bas-relief at the top of the sarcophagus. Light seemed to absorb into the sacred resting place, always leaving the Night Mother in shadow. Someone, probably Pontius, had roped off the surrounding area so no one would get too close and risk disrespecting the Night Mother with their unworthy presence. 

There were so few of us now. Rasha was leading the meeting as was his right as Speaker of Cheydinhal. Ardaru and Bun-Za made up the rest of the crippled Black Hand. They stood quietly behind the Khajiit, safely out of reach of his lashing tail. Garnag, finally recovered from his grievous injuries, sat on a chair looking so strange with the black silken eye patch that hid his ruined right eye. A small black leather bound book seemed so out of place in his large hands. Pontius pulled up a chair next to the orc and started a private conversation as everyone settled into place. Clagius Laenius, Synniu Vicici, and Sabrinda Vicici filed in making all of us present. 

Not including the Skyrim Sanctuary, the nine of us made the last of the Dark Brotherhood. 

"Brothers and sisters, as you all know the Black Hand gathered last night to appoint one of us as Keeper of the Night Mother," Rasha announced once he had everyone's attention. "Rasha is pleased to announce that our dear brother Chickpea has been chosen for the sacred duty." 

I was so busy recording the event in my journal that it did not register to me that Rasha had just called my name. I was still getting used to the silly nickname my brothers and sisters had given me. I gasped as all eyes turned towards me and applause broke out. 

"Go on, brother," Sabrinda laughed gaily as she shoved me. "Take a bow. You deserve it." 

I stumbled to my feet and scurried to where Rasha was standing staring at me with irritation for holding up his ceremony. I nervously bent my journal back and forth in my hands as I hunched next to our leader. Rasha laughed loudly at me as he slung his tiger striped arm around my shoulder. "Congratulations, Chickpea!" 

"I'mI'm not worthy," I stuttered, hating all the attention on me. 

Rasha shook me roughly, "Nonsense! We wouldn't have picked you if you weren't the best choice to serve our Mother's needs. Of course, the Night Mother will require much attention since she cannot fend for herself, so you'll have your hands full. You will have to retire your blade, but we all know that you'll gladly accept this burden." 

My heart fell in my chest and I stifled a protest. To be Keeper was such an amazing honor, but to never lift my blade again? It would be like being struck blind or deaf. 

"I have no idea what to do," I admitted softly. "What if I mess up?" 

"Don't worry," Rasha gestured to Garnag. "Our brother brought more than just the Night Mother with him when he returned from Bravil." 

The orc stood and handed me the book he had been holding. I looked at the ancient script that covered the front of the book. "The Keeping Tomes" was blazed into the leather.  My brother smiled encouragement to me. "This was next to the Night Mother in her crypt. I only read the first page, but it says that it holds all the instructions for taking care of the Night Mother. Also, I'll teach you the telekinesis spell. It's how I managed to bring our Matron back by myself. I'm sure you'll find it useful." Garnag winked his remaining eye at me. 

The others had a standing challenge to try to make me laugh, which was probably what Garnag was trying to do. Personally I thought laughter was stupid and pointless. Why make all that noise when silence was our friend? But the others seemed to revel in it and tried their best to draw me in. I appreciated the closeness they exuded by trying to include me even if I didn't understand it. 

Rasha dismissed everyone and reminded them to be mindful of my new duties before drawing me aside. "Rasha realizes this is very startling turn of events for you. To help you, I have arranged for one last contract. A sort of farewell present if you will. Turns out the Emperor's jester has pissed someone off enough they want him dead. There is a bonus if you can make the man suffer before he dies." The twinkle in his eyes and the predatory grin felt unsettling to me. There must be something the Speaker knew about the contract that I didn't. 

"Thank you," I said simply, bowing my head. 

"No thanks necessary, brother," Rasha purred. "You have until the end of the month to complete it. We don't want to keep the Night Mother without an attendant much longer, do we?" 

 

30th of Morning Star, 4E 189

It was nightfall as I followed my prey down the city streets of the Imperial City. The man was unmistakable in his brand new jester's motley. For the last several days, when not absorbing every word of the Keeping Tomes, I had followed this man's schedule to find the perfect moment to grab him and complete my contract. I didn't know his name and did not want to. Names made it personal. I didn't want to know the person whose life I would be ending. I only cared that I was answering the pleas of the desperate and vengeful. 

The man was so busy whistling and singing as he strutted down the streets, he never noticed my presence as I snuck up behind him and pressed a cloth soaked in sleeping potion over his face. Not that he would have heard me anyway. I move so quietly that even my brothers and sisters didn't notice I am in a room until I have been there for several minutes observing their conversations. 

Before anyone could see the strange sight, I dragged the jester into an abandoned building that I had previously picked out for our private session. I pulled the unconscious body down a flight of stairs into an old food cellar.  His silly curly-toed boots bounced quietly against the wooden grain as we descended. 

I efficiently stripped the motley off and folded the clothes to the side. No reason to not be neat. Then I chained the jester to wall manacles I had installed a few days ago. As I was examining the tools I would use, the jester awoke. 

"Oh, ho, ho, ho," he chuckled. "It seems I am in quite the bind." The jester saw me and exclaimed merrily, "And who are you, my friend?" 

"I am not your friend," I said straightening with a serrated blade in my hand. "I am your executioner." 

"That doesn't mean we cannot be friends," the jester pouted. 

"By most accounts actually it does," I said tersely. The man's high-pitched voice was getting on my nerves and I was quickly seeing why someone wanted him dead. 

I studied my target trying to decide how I wanted to start. The jester was an Imperial, not surprising since he was part of the personal entourage of Emperor Titus Mede II. Brown hair fell to his shoulders. He was a broader man, obviously from years of eating large, plentiful meals. His pouch of a stomach hung comically over his smallclothes. The man looked to be in his forties, indicating he had been with the Emperor for many years. Laugh lines created a web of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. 

Merrymen tended to serve for life always whispering what no one wanted to hear in the ears of the most powerful men and women of the Empire. Or in some cases, shouted loudly to the dismay of their audience. 

"Come now, I have heard many times that the use of the dagger is the most intimate of fighting styles," the jester said playfully. He had mistaken my pause as hesitation and was trying to use it to gain my confidence. "Surely we will become friends with such closeness. No man should die friendless. It is much too sad! Life should be full of joy and laughter. Why should death be any different?" 

"I am inclined to disagree," I said as I casually flipped the blade in my hand. There really was no need to rush. I should treasure this last kill for a long as possible. I had until midnight to meet Rasha's deadline. That was hours away. Besides, it would make an entertaining story for my siblings later. Maybe Sabrinda would reward me with more than her crooked smile if I told it well. Sithis knew she had done so many times before. 

I sat back down and pulled out the Keeping Tomes to read the passage on the chants needed for oiling the Night Mother. There were several required, none of them simple, and I was determined to have them memorized before I started my duties. I figured I would ignore the jester for a bit and let him grow uncomfortable in the silence. Very few people can stand to not talk, especially if they are in a room with someone else. 

"Oh, my, what is that you're reading?" the jester craned his head as if to read the cover. I ignored him. "Come now, how can I learn anything about my tormenter if he will not speak? Do you realize how maddening that is when you want someone to talk and they won't? 

"Are you torturing me for information? I don't mind to repeat all the gossip I know. By the Nine, I was going to do that during the luncheon tomorrow anyway. I don't mind if you know ahead of time. It will let me practice so I can give a better performance." The jester laughed loudly. 

"Don't you mean by the Eight?" I asked, immediately berating myself for feeding into the jester's conversation. The White-Gold Concordat had been signed fourteen years ago ending the Great War. One of the major concessions had been forbidding the worship of the god Talos. 

"Son, just because no one wants to admit there is a mammoth in a room doesn't mean there isn't a mammoth in the room," the jester snorted. "If the Thalmor don't want us to worship Talos, it doesn't mean Talos doesn't exist." 

"Did you ever consider that may be why you're going to die today?" I asked not able to stop myself from talking to this fascinating man. He was completely fearless in the face of his death with a grin on his lips and a laugh on his tongue. Truly someone worth studying before sending to the Void. 

"I always felt that it was better to be a fool who tells the truth than the fool who believes the lie," the jester said attempting to shrug despite his bonds. "Honesty is a harsh weapon in the court of lies. We should exchange names since we're getting so close now. It is the polite thing to do." 

"You've hardly struck me as the polite type," I said. I fingered my blade again. I really should get to work. The hours could so easily slip away. "Besides, I have no desire to know your name." 

"Oh," the jester said with a small voice. "Hm, will you at least tell me about your book?" 

"It is an instruction manual," I said. It wouldn't hurt to indulge just a tiny bit and it would be good to speak to someone about my upcoming responsibilities. I didn't feel comfortable admitting my nervousness to my family. I didn't want to seem weak or the wrong choice. They had their faith in me, I had to earn it! "It tells me how to care for our Matron, the Night Mother." 

"Oh, is she sick?" the jester affected concern. 

"No, she's dead," I rolled my eyes. "She's quite dead, but her body acts as a vessel to communicate with our leader. Since the riots in Bravil, we had to move her to our Sanctuary and now her body risks the normal contaminations of the world." 

"And you drew the short straw? My sympathies," the jester nodded solemnly. 

"I did not draw a short straw!" I exclaimed. "It is a sacred duty, an honor, to be chosen as Keeper."  My voice lowered into a whisper, "Even if it means I will no longer kill." 

I had thought I had spoken low enough that the jester couldn't hear, but he had. "Oh, ho, ho. It sounds like they have played a fine joke on you. I wonder if they picked someone they didn't like or if it was because they knew you wouldn't complain." 

"It is not a joke!" I screamed. I picked up my blade and sunk it into the jester's shoulder. He screamed in pain, but it didn't stop his laughter. I stabbed the man several more times before I gained control of my anger. I stepped back and threw the blade to the ground. I couldn't kill the jester immediately. I had to make this last. "You are infuriating," I hissed. 

"So I've been told," the jester gasped. "I suppose you're not going to tell me your name." 

"No," I growled. 

"I'd like you to know mine. At least someone should know old Cicero before he dies." The jester saw me flinch at the name. "Oh, do you know the name? Do they speak well of me?" 

"That's my name," I whispered. Rasha, that damned cat, must have known when he made the assignment. The Speaker's job was to make contact with the petitioner. 

"Ha, ha, ha. I've always said that I slay me, but I never imagined it would be so literal," the jester laughed. 

I picked up my fallen blade and cleaned it carefully. My hands were shaking so badly that I was afraid I would slice my own hand. I slowed my breathing and counted slowly to regain my composure. Maybe Rasha didn't know. Maybe he did. It didn't matter. He knew that most of us didn't ask for the names of our targets. The goal and the bonus were all that mattered. 

I waited until I felt serene before turning back to my target. "It is time I started my job," I said coldly as I wielded the dagger. The jester's screams of pain were like music after his taunts and laughter. I allowed myself to smile as I drank it in deeply. I wouldn't be able to feast again, ever. 

As I stepped away to take a break and change tools, the jester begged, "Please, please, my friend, my namesake. Don't kill me." He cried, his tears mingling with the blood from his lips. "Walk away! Let poor Cicero live! Tell your masters that you did the job: stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero. One little itty bitty lie?" 

"You know I cannot do that," I said as I picked up a longer blade. 

"I should have known I couldn't expect anything better from a joke assassin. One so bad they don't even want him out killing people," the jester laughed cruelly. "Sad, pathetic namesake is going to go home to his mommy and take care of her while the big kids play." 

"I am not sad, pathetic, or a joke!" I screamed. I slashed the blade across the jester's arm severing the tendons. If his hands had not been bound, the limb would have fallen uselessly to the jester's side. 

"What do I care what you want to believe, sad little man?" the jester screamed with laughter and pain. "I asked that you spare me, you say no. I ask to be your friend, you say no. If you say no to me when I tell you the truth, what do I care? Who is more the fool? You or I?" His eyes glittered madly at me. The jester saw his death and no longer feared it. It would have been like fearing the coming of the dawn. 

I tried to tune him out and focus solely on my work. I wanted to simply enjoy the feel of the blade on flesh one last time. I wanted to revel in my worship of my god. But his laughter sliced through time and time again. Silence shattered by the laughter. No matter what I did, the jester continued to laugh. 

Until he didn't. 

I stepped back to admire my last masterpiece. I sighed, both happy and sorrowful that it was over. I had fulfilled my duty, but I would never know that joy again. That pure rapture of a life slipping into the Void. 

As I cleaned my tools, I looked over to the jester's motley, cap, gloves, and boots. I picked up the soft material and marveled how it felt in my hands. I would take these as my trophy. My last memento to remember my time with the jester. 

By the time I returned to Sanctuary, it was very late and everyone was asleep. I stopped before the Night Mother's coffin and knelt before her. "Blessed Night Mother, I am now your Keeper. I don't care if others think I am some sort of joke, I will serve you faithfully until I die. I will do everything expected from me in the Tomes. If you do not speak, it will be your will, not because you are unable. This is my responsibility. This is my vow." 

I could feel a smile curling on my lips. A low chuckle bubbled up from my throat that became a bitter laugh. Oh yes, I would prove to be the best Keeper ever. And if the others thought I was a joke, then more fools they.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little piece that I've had in my head for a while. Although not strictly part of the Darkness Rises / Future of Skyrim setting, it can easily act as a prequel of sorts.
> 
> The jester was a character I played around with quite a bit. I had considered making him a Khajiit to help explain why Cicero eventually starts talking in third person. In the end, I figured it would be more damaging to the psyche to have him have the same name as our assassin.


End file.
